to feel close to and trust Brooke, the gentlest, eldest Winfield sister, though she got a real kick out of spunky Joey and bubbly Katie.
She resented that Denver had such power and that resentment made her harsher with him than she wanted to be. Which she also hated.
Last on her hate list? That she had the feeling he understood all of the above.
“Come swimming with me tonight after work.”
“What?” She swung around to face him. Was he asking her out? In what capacity? As a friend? A date? “Swimming?”
“Yeah. Immerse self in water, propel self through said liquid with coordinated motion of arms and legs.” He mimicked the front crawl arm circles.
She couldn’t help a smile. “Got it.”
“The neighbors are on a Greek island with my parents and let me use their indoor pool while they’re gone. It’s built in a glass extension to their house, so you can see the sky through the ceiling. You’d love it.”
She stood silently, imagining the two of them alone past midnight, sneaking a wintry moonlit swim in a stranger’s empty house and wanted to go with a force that shocked her.
“Um…I don’t think so.”
“Think it over.”
“Thanks, really. But no.” She managed to sound more sure that time, picked up an inventory off her desk and scanned it blindly. The paper flew out of her hands; she whipped around and snatched it back.
“One of these days, Lindsay.” He was leaning too close, watching her too closely, undoubtedly getting much too close to the truth of her emotional state. As usual.
“One of what days?” She pretended not to know, pretended not to care, pretended to herself that he couldn’t tell she was pretending. His chin was smooth-shaven, he smelled good, he was solid and masculine and everything she’d always fantasized about, excepting the silver spoon upbringing. Damn him to hell.
“One of these days you’re going to let me inside.”
“Or else what?” Her heart had jumped, was still jumping, like a maniac who’d just won the lottery. Inside? She knew what he meant but the way it sounded…
“No ‘or else.’ It’s just fact.”
Any other guy would get a sock in the nose trying such bullshit on her. But Denver managed to make the lines sound as much of a sure thing as his control over what he’d have for dinner that night.
“So what’s your point?”
He smiled, unruffled by her rudeness. “So my point is that it’s going to be good. For both of us.”
Was he flirting? Did he realize? “You’re sounding sexual.”
“What?” He clapped his hand to his chest, brows raised too high. “No way, really?”
Her mouth opened, she started to speak, then gave up when she realized she was actually speechless. A blush crept up her cheek and she turned—or tried to. He grabbed her arm. “No, no, don’t go, let me enjoy this. A reaction, my God. How I’ve waited for this moment.”
“Hmph. Maybe you need more work to do.”
“No.” Denver tugged on her wrist, gently, the way she didn’t mind so much being touched. “However, at closing time I’m going to ask you again, tonight and tomorrow and every night until you come swimming with me and I can get you to relax and have fun, even for an hour.”
“Without trying to get inside me?” She stuck as much sarcasm as she could into the phrase even as thrills struggled to take over.
He winked. “We’ll see about that.”
“Denver…” She used an I’m-your-boss warning tone to cover her confusion.
“I’m joking, Lindsay. This is friends only. Friends blowing off the steam of the day in a nice heated pool.”
“Yes, I know. I knew that. I know.” She pulled away from his hand, furious with herself for imagining much more…and doubly furious for being disappointed he hadn’t.
DENVER FINISHED ANOTHER frustrated lap and lolled at the edge of the pool, staring up into the perfect sky visible through the glass ceiling. He’d kept the lights off to enjoy the view. There was even a moon tonight, waning past full, white and pristine. The water was warm, the air cool, a large raft floated nearby for ultimate relaxing—how much more appealing could the setup be?
One way. But Lindsay hadn’t showed. Not that he expected her to. He didn’t even know why he’d bothered asking her, didn’t know why he’d turned so stubborn about making her open up to him. Didn’t know why he stayed in this town, at this bar, instead of trying to rebuild his plastic surgery career the way he envisioned it in medical school, helping people disfigured by fire, disease or defect, not hiking up the boobs and eyelids of vain rich people.
He’d been unceremoniously canned from one of L.A.’s most prestigious practices after losing his temper at a mother who’d wanted him to cut apart her beautiful and striking sixteen-year-old daughter and put her back together according to some bland ideal of perfection.
No, the mom hadn’t invented the attitude, she hadn’t deserved what he’d dished out. But she’d been the final straw for him and apparently, for his bosses. So he’d packed his broken-backed camel, driven across the country back to his home state of Massachusetts, parked his possessions in storage and his body in his globe-trotting parents’ early-retirement house in Brookline and had taken the job at Chassy, intending to be there only a few months while he got his head together. Nearly a year later he still hadn’t left.
At first he told himself he stayed for the comfortable routine, the excitement of watching the bar grow and change under Lindsay’s skillful leadership. Then he told himself he needed a little more time, what was the hurry? Money wasn’t a problem, his parents weren’t due back for a while and he really hadn’t decided yet where he wanted to settle or whether he wanted to return to California at all. Then he told himself Lindsay needed a friend. She’d been under some kind of extra stress in the last several months and refused to let anything out. He was a poster boy for what happened when you let discontent build too long.
All those were plausible reasons. Excellent reasons. Logical reasons. All contained a large grain of truth.
They just didn’t tell the whole story.
And he wasn’t sure he was ready to admit even to himself what that whole story was. All he knew was that his interest in Lindsay had slowly changed. Increasingly powerful sexual feelings were mixed with respect, friendship and, lately, growing concern.
None of it made sense. Jenna, his first love, had been a sweet petite redhead. With her he’d felt like Sir Galahad. After Jenna, his type became brainy plus voluptuous plus passionate, with eyes he could warm himself by, legs ditto. A woman with a healthy libido and a healthy grasp on her character and emotions.
Not some frosty blond beanpole with enough baggage to travel to Antarctica for a year.
What was wrong with this picture?
Annoyingly,
